


Roseate Lies

by rednihilist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TOIL and grow rich,<br/>What's that but to lie<br/>With a foul witch<br/>And after, drained dry,<br/>To be brought<br/>To the chamber where<br/>Lies one long sought<br/>With despair? </p><p>"The Witch" ~ William Butler Yeats</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter and certain characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and also Heyday Films, Moving Picture Company (MPC), Warner Bros. Pictures, et al. 
> 
> Dorian Gray and certain characters belong to Oscar Wilde.
> 
> No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
> 
> A/N: Spring cleaning in the Fall.

The morning of his arrival, rain fell in sheets for as far as the eye could see and a good deal beyond. The dreariness of it appealed to him, and he found the foul weather the only appropriate backdrop for such a day. The irony of sunshine and warm breezes would have been intolerable.

 

He was to wait at the gate and while doing so struggled to remember his humility and the debt of honor he would hopefully soon find himself on the other end of. As the strange carriage he had ridden up in from the village nearby circled around and started back on its lumbering return, and as he stood with his suitcases, bags, and one crate surrounding him in the cold, northern rain, he found himself abruptly lost in the memory of another such time, another moment a lifetime ago when he had stood alone—completely and utterly separate from every other person in the world.

 

It was then, as his mind ventured once more into agonizing matters long past, that a messenger appeared before him. Dressed entirely in black with a disposition seemingly even gloomier, the figure approached the large gate on foot. When within hailing distance, the stranger pointedly acknowledged him with only a brief nod and quickly set about opening the gate.

 

Surprisingly silent, the great mass of metal easily gave way, and without delay the messenger, who resembled nothing so much as an overly large, drenched bat, stepped through. He smoothly glided over to the small heap of luggage and then drew short, seeming all of a sudden almost hesitant. 

 

"The crate?" the stranger finally asked, eyes intent upon the object in question.

 

"Yes, although I will carry it myself," he responded and, without waiting for reply, quickly strode over and picked up the flat box crate.

 

The bedraggled, sour man turned to look at him but stopped before making actual eye contact. There was a bitter rejoinder floating around unspoken, no doubt some remark about hotels and servants, but, in only a matter of seconds, the man had successfully arranged the remaining baggage and without further ado turned back to pass through the giant work of iron. 

 

"Coming?" the man tossed over his shoulder, already walking once more up the path, this time with several pieces of sturdy brown leather luggage under his charge.

 

Knowing no response was either necessary or expected, and with the most secure and unyielding of grips on the crate he held, he set off after the unpleasant man, stepping through the open gate and resignedly plodding through mud, puddles, and slick grass.

 

Just before a bend in the path took them to the left of some very tall trees, he risked a glance back the way they had come.

 

The gate was firmly shut and pulsed with a steady white light. 

 

 


	2. What Do You Know?

" . . . extremely dangerous, as well as being  _forbidden_ , which some of our older students would do well to remember. Now, this year, in addition to housing all of you fine students and the extraordinarily perseverant staff, Hogwarts also welcomes our new resident lecturer, Mr. Damian Gris."  
  
Eyes staring blankly at his plate as he thought, Harry wasn't actually paying attention to Dumbledore's post-feast speech. So at the Headmaster's deviation from the usual announcements, his head jerked up in surprise. Only, his wasn't the only one to do so, nor was it the only one to solidly make contact with his neighbor's. In that, he had company. So as he and Ron both clutched their heads in mutual pain, everyone else in the Great Hall went from studying the newest faculty member to staring at the two of them, including Dumbledore and all of the teachers on the platform.  
  
"Oi," Ron grumbled, rubbing the side of his head and turning somewhat pink, and Harry couldn't help but agree with a grimace and no doubt slight blush of his own.  
  
"If that is all," Dumbledore then said, raising his eyebrows towards Ron and Harry in apparent good humor, "I will ask that the prefects kindly escort the first years to their respective dormitories. The Head Girl and Boy will please remain behind." There was the loud clatter of hundreds of student feet and just as many mouths, and then the Headmaster, in imitable fashion, called out, "Good night, dear children, and please be wary of flying rossbruns!"  
  
"Sounds like Luna. What's a rossbroom anyway?" Ron asked as he clambered over the bench.  
  
Harry smiled at the mangling in pronunciation and then again when both he and Ron turned to Hermione for clarification at the same time.  
  
"Hermione?" Harry prompted, and, as all three of them were standing up and the aisles were already packed, he didn't think it strange that he should start moving towards the Great Hall doors. Ron evidently had the same idea, and it took them three or four steps before they realized Hermione wasn't right behind them.  
  
"Er, what?" Ron asked, when Harry reached out to stop him with nudge of his elbow. Harry lifted his eyebrows and jerked his head back in the direction they'd come from, where, sure enough, Hermione was still standing. "What's she looking at?" Ron then asked, to which Harry could only shrug. "Not like she's Head Girl, or anything," he remarked.  
  
"Not yet," Harry added, and they both grinned at that. "I don't know what she's doing. Hang on," he told him, but Ron grumbled something about "duties" and resignedly set off to herd the Gryffindor first years up to the tower. Harry in turn reversed and went about fighting his way back to Hermione, darting in amongst the sea of other departing Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs until he reached her side. She was uncharacteristically neglecting her prefect duties in favor of—staring at the staff table? "Hermione?" Harry asked her, putting his hand on her arm briefly in a bid for her attention.    
  
"Yes?" she answered distractedly, still staring. A few seconds later, though, she whipped her head around to look at Harry, and he swore he could almost see the many thoughts spinning in her head.  
  
"Something wrong?" he asked, curious to know what she'd already picked up on in just the couple of hours they'd been back. He wondered if she'd noticed the state of Dumbledore's hand, all shriveled up and black, or if she by chance knew something useful about this Mr. Damian Gris who was to "lecture" them.  
  
"Oh! No, not at all," she said hurriedly, answering his question. Then she flashed a big smile at him, before abruptly going white as a sheet as she got a good look at the quickly emptying Hall. "Where're the new students?" she asked worriedly.  
  
Harry couldn't help grinning. "Oh, Ron's got 'em," he mockingly assured her.  
  
And as Hermione dashed off past him with a little whining noise, Harry, with a smile still on his face, glanced up at the Head table in an effort to figure what had caught Hermione's interest. The usuals were there, Hooch, Flitwick, Trelawney, Hagrid, McGonagall at Dumbledore's right, but then, at the Headmaster's left, there was an unfamiliar man, now standing along with everyone else as they waited for the students to exit before leaving themselves. He was standing next to Snape, and the two made quite a pair—both scowling in dark robes, with dark features, and an almost palpable aura of derision surrounding them. The only difference between the two was the stranger, Gris, looked to be about half Snape's age.  
  
This man was going to teach them somehow? Great, Harry thought sullenly, turning around and trailing behind the other students. It seemed he'd have Snape even when he wasn't in Potions.  
  
The year was already off to a great start.  
  
***

"So, Harry," Ron said as he dropped down onto the sofa next to Hermione, "won't it be nice not being yelled at several times a week by a greasy git? I know I'm looking forward to the experience."  
  
Next to him, Hermione rolled her eyes, but said nothing. She had a book in her lap, one of the new texts for Defense, and was studying it intently, although Harry was certain she'd read it cover to cover at least twice already. But, that was just Hermione, bookworm extraordinaire.  
  
Harry gamely smiled at Ron. Then, nodding, he said, "Yeah, as much as I needed Potions, I'm sort of relieved I don't have to take it. Seems being stupid finally paid off," he added, causing both Ron and Neville, where he sat in the other chair opposite Harry, to laugh. Hermione frowned at that, but still kept quiet.  
  
The next morning, however, Harry and Ron discovered their mistake. Snape wasn't teaching Potions this year. Instead, it was the wizard Dumbledore had enlisted Harry to recruit, Slughorn, who was their instructor. Different professor, different rules, and where Snape accepted only the top students, Slughorn's standards weren't nearly so rigid. That morning found Harry and Ron down in the dungeon for Potions anyway—sans required books, of course. But there were extras in a cupboard, and Harry lucked out and got an old beaten up one, every page of which, to his benefit, was covered in small, meticulous notes and alternate instructions. Finding those asides easier to follow than the book's regular instructions, Harry succeeded in correctly brewing a potion for the first time ever.

If only Snape had taught them like this, he found himself thinking. He could've been just as good at Potions as Hermione or Malfoy, Snape's prized bloody pupil, if he'd had something like this book the whole time.

Unfortunately, escaping Snape in Potions meant he had to endure him someplace else, and that was sadly Defense Against the Dark Arts. Snape had finally got his wish, and was teaching the course with a vengeance, practically gloating during each class as he showed off his extensive knowledge of the subject.

"Big surprise there," Ron early on dared to whisper, and Harry quickly nodded before turning back to studiously stare ahead at the board. He wasn't a moment too soon, either, as just a few seconds later Snape whipped around to glare at the class as a whole.  
  
Greasy bastard, Harry thought to himself, grudgingly taking down notes. The whole world was upside down, with his favorite class now Potions and the one he dreaded going to Defense.  
  
All he needed now was some major life threatening drama to crop up and he'd be all set for another wonderful year at Hogwarts.  
  
Stupid Snape.  
  
***  
  
The morning of the second Monday, he and Ron woke up late and were scurrying down the tower stairs—Ron trying to do up his tie, and Harry attempting to avoid tripping over his unlaced shoestrings—when they came around a corner and nearly slammed right into a group of third-year Ravenclaws, all standing around discussing a notice posted on the wall.  
  
"Hey, watch it!" Ron exclaimed, as they both drew up short. The Ravenclaws turned as one to look at them disdainfully, then went back to conferring about whatever the notice said. Ron leaned over to Harry and asked, "What's up with them?"  
  
Harry shrugged, and peered above a few of the shorter Ravenclaws' heads. Squinting, he read aloud, "Series of formal lectures to be held in the. . . Blazing Room?" He shared a confused look and a shrug with Ron before turning back to finish. "Student body, conduct themselves appropriately, blah, blah, blah. Oh, here we go! 'Mr. Damian Gris will address such relevant topics as higher education, cultural tradition, elimination of instruction in literature and fine arts, as well as offering several seminars on significant historical events.'"  
  
Harry stopped reading and a few seconds later, when the third-years drifted away down the hall, he and Ron moved closer to the announcement to get a better look.  
  
"Says 'attendance is optional,'" Ron pointed out, and Harry nodded.  
  
"Bet everyone goes the first time, though," he said, and it was Ron's turn to agree. They turned at the same time, heading in the direction of the Great Hall where breakfast would still be on for another 15 minutes. As they entered, Harry spotted Hermione down at the far end of the Gryffindor table, with Neville, Ginny, and Dean Thomas around her.  
  
"Besides," Harry said, with a nod towards Hermione, "you know she won't let us skip out on it."  
  
"Probably just wants to ogle that Gris some more," Ron grumbled, just as they reached the table.  
  
Harry chuckled and dropped his bag down on the floor, taking the empty seat next to Neville and leaving Ron the one at Hermione's left.  
  
" . . . seriously doubt it's made of  _fire_ , Dean," Hermione was saying dismissively, and across from her Ginny snorted.  
  
"What are we talking about?" Harry quietly asked Neville, as he reached over and grabbed several slices of perfectly toasted cinnamon walnut bread.  
  
Neville turned to him. "Did you guys see the notice in the common room? About the lectures starting Thursday night?"  
  
Harry was about to nod, his mouth full, but Ron beat him to the punch by saying, "Nah, but we saw the one just down the hall. Sounds kind of boring, I think." And then he promptly shoved half a buttered scone in his mouth, much to Dean, Neville, and Harry's amusement. Ginny, no doubt used to that sort of behavior, barely reacted at all, but Hermione grimaced in disgust and scooted a little farther away from Ron.  
  
"How elegant, Ronald," she commented in that haughty tone of hers, at which point they all burst out laughing—including Ron who nearly choked as a result. "Oh, please!" Hermione scoffed, waiting for them to calm down with a long-suffering look on her face. Finally, she seemed to give up and, sighing, said, "We were discussing the fact that they're to be held in the Blazing Room, the location of which is unknown to all of us. I speculated that it was most likely a room here somewhere on the ground floor, perhaps similar to the Great Hall. Dean, however," and here she raised her eyebrows significantly, "is more focused on the name and seems to think the Blazing Room contains actual fire."  
  
"Well, why else call it that?" Dean retorted. "It's not like the  _Great Hall_ , now is it, which is pretty self-explanatory."  
  
Ron made a sound of agreement, his mouth still full. Hermione looked over at him again and huffed.  
  
"Maybe," said Ginny, "it's just kept really warm in there."  
  
"I like that one," Harry offered, which made Ginny smile and Dean frown for some reason.  
  
Neville nodded his head at that too, saying, "My gran has one called the Boiling Room, and it's just because in the winter that one's the warmest in the house—heating spells my great-granddad put in there." When the other boy stopped talking and abruptly swallowed, his eyes embarrassedly falling down to his lap, Harry realized they were all staring at Neville in something like surprise. He immediately turned his head away in sympathy, and prayed the others followed suit. Maybe if they didn't react to Neville speaking up like it was strange and unusual every time, he might not be so hesitant about doing so. Harry knew it was harder to speak to people when they acted like it was a big deal, so he should be the first person who understood Neville's difficulties. Well, he thought, as eventually everyone else guiltily quit staring at Neville, he'd do better from now on.  
  
He'd be better. It was time he woke up and started getting his life together. He was 16 years old now, not 11 without a clue about how the world worked. Time to grow up.  
  
"That's probably it," Harry said decisively, and now everyone  _but_ Neville was looking at him. "Neville's got it, I think—just a room that's blazingly hot."  
  
By then, it was about time to leave for class, so Harry reached down and grabbed his bag, and the others glanced around, noticed the other Houses getting up and leaving, and made themselves ready too. Just as they were climbing over the benches, Harry offered up, "Although a room made of fire would be pretty wicked."  
  
And while Ron, Dean, and Ginny laughed, and Hermione grudgingly smiled, Harry caught up to where Neville had rushed ahead and kept pace with him, walking beside him the whole way up to the Defense classroom.  
  
***  
  
As they found out two nights later, the so-called Blazing Room indeed had nothing whatsoever to do with fire, not beyond its color scheme anyway. It turned out to be nothing more than a large lecture hall decorated entirely in medium and dark red tones, one of a series of halls strung down the second floor corridor, in fact, none of which were currently in use.  
  
"Must be left over from when the class sizes were greater," Hermione mused, and Harry figured that was the likeliest reason and nodded. He couldn't dispute her logic anyway,  _ever_ , and if nodding silently also came across as tacit agreement, thus preventing her from citing another godforsaken passage from  _Hogwarts, A History_  in an attempt to further convince him of her point, then that was just a bonus.  
  
They found a group of three seats together in a row about halfway up and a third of the way across, in and amongst some other Gryffindors and quite a few Ravenclaws—the latter which, some of whom Harry recognized as having run into back in the corridor the other day. Taking a seat to the left of Hermione, with Ron as usual on her right, Harry scanned the room and guessed that every student had shown up for this thing, or near enough as made no difference.  
  
Still, the place wasn't completely full, and it probably held some 500 seats.  
  
As they waited for the lecture to start, Hermione pulled out a long piece of parchment, her quill, and a small jar of ink, then carefully set up her desk with everything on it. Harry noted that he would have to be careful with his elbows, and shared a smirk with Ron over Hermione's head.  
  
Looking around again, though, he thought Hermione's explanation about the room really did make the most sense. It was well known, even to Harry, that the number of wizards had steadily dwindled over the centuries. This lecture hall, the Blazing Room, was certainly too large to be of much use these days. For classes, the levels were paired up according to House, and everyone was only together as a whole student body during meals, feasts, and Quidditch matches, and those were held either in the Great Hall or out on the pitch. No need for a huge room capable of seating every student with room to spare. Harry recalled the short-lived dueling club back in second year, and the Tournament events in fourth, but even then they'd made do with the Great Hall. The Blazing Room was ring seating, though, probably only good for lectures and maybe shows—plays, recitals, and the like. And with it being all done up in red, maybe that meant the other rooms they'd spotted on their way past were different colors. Perhaps there was one for each House? It was an interesting notion, one that might bear a little further investigating on their parts later on.  
  
"Good evening," a smooth voice suddenly called out, and the many conversations going on around the room quickly died down. "Yes, it's time we started," Gris said, acknowledging the now silent hall. The man had evidently entered through one of the doors in the back and was just now reaching the front of the room. He smoothly climbed one of the sets of stairs at either side of the stage, and proceeded across it until he stood in the middle. Dressed in grey and black, with his now recognizable smirk firmly in place and unyielding posture, the man looked like a younger, cleaner, more handsome version of Snape.

"Tonight will function as our rehearsal of sorts," Gris started off saying. He looked around the room steadily, and Harry decided Gris was the most confident and poised 19-year-old he'd ever seen. The guy was speaking to a gigantic roomful of kids he himself would've been part of not three years ago. That took guts, or nerves of steel, as well as commitment and a confidence in one's own knowledge and ability. They'd all been guessing Slytherin for Gris, based solely on his attitude and style of dress, but now Harry rather doubted it was that simple a case. Gris, he thought, could've easily fit into either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw as well, and none of them truly knew anything about him, not really. Maybe he was loyal and prized fairness, too, in which case he might just as likely have been a Hufflepuff. There was no way to tell for sure, not without asking him.

Then, just as Gris started talking again, it occurred to Harry to wonder if Gris had even gone to Hogwarts. He'd just assumed, but. . .  
  
"I will open," Gris said, turning and beginning to pace slowly across the stage, "with a brief personal history."  
  
Distractedly, Harry noticed Hermione scribbling down notes to his left, but quickly managed to block out the scratching sound of her quill. He had years of practice doing it, after all.  
  
"This I do, not from any particular desire to share on my part," Gris was saying, "but rather to put you at ease, and underscore our similarities. I too had a mother and father."  
  
Harry immediately noted the use of the past tense in that statement.  
  
"I, like you," Gris said, "attended school and found it, more often than not, both extremely tedious and largely unpleasant."  
  
Most everyone chuckled or smiled at the joke, and Gris' obvious icebreaker had the desired effect. There was some rustling around the hall as people shifted into more comfortable sitting positions, and then Gris picked up again.  
  
"I grew up in London," he shared, "but did my fair share of traveling and sight-seeing as a young man."  
  
At that, Harry, Ron, and Hermione all shared a look. Gris seemed rather stuffy, with his distant and formal way of speaking, and the composure that frankly baffled Harry. He didn't have much experience outside the Weasleys, but he didn't think normal 19- or 20-year-olds were like this. Gris acted like he was ancient, in the same way that Dumbledore did. Not even Remus, who Harry loved dearly but who was quite obviously a stick in the mud, was as. . . old-fashioned and uptight as this Gris seemed to be. Not even McGonagall!  
  
'Young man' indeed. Gris was like a darker, more interesting version of Ron's brother Percy—like a Snape-Percy hybrid, and after thinking that it was all Harry could do not to gag.  
  
"What's your  _family_ history?" some sneering voice suddenly called out from the other side of the hall, and Harry was surprised that he didn't recognize who it was. That was the type of question he'd been expecting from Malfoy, Death-Eater-in-Training, ever since they'd found out about these lectures.  
  
"Rude, but relevant," Gris responded, garnering some laughter from the crowd. "There are a few notable connections here and there in my ancestry," the man offered. "You would all no doubt be most interested in surnames. Of the ones I can immediately recall, a few are apparently, as I'm to understand, esteemed Wizarding lines. Let's see now. There were several Peverells," at which point, Harry, from the corner of his eye, saw Hermione look up and lean in closer, "and perhaps two or three Gaunts. Most importantly, however, is the fact that apparently my great-grandfather at one time was an influential patriarch of the Black family, and also somewhat of a, hmm, lech."  
  
And while the other students chuckled and giggled at that, Harry found himself studying Gris more closely, for if the man hadn't already had Harry's full attention he sure would've after that revelation. Gris was a Black? He was related to—to. . .  
  
"Old goat married three times all told," Gris explained, with the air of someone disapprovingly passing on a particularly scandalous bit of gossip, "had a few kids with every new missus, but then got an additional son in an extramarital affair with a likewise married woman named—hmm. French name. Very slick. Can't recall it at the moment, but my ancestors came from that very union, you see, which is the origin of my surname. An illegitimate son? Not quite Black, but. . . ?" And here he paused significantly, while everyone except Hermione and a few Ravenclaws down the way seemed completely stumped. Finally, after a few seconds more of silence, Gris simply raised his eyebrows and said, "Gris?  _Gray_?" receiving several groans and not a few eyerolls in response.  
  
"All of this I discovered only recently," Gris went on, still pacing steadily back and forth across the stage, "within the last few years or so. My family—immediate, that is—was nobility, but typical of that class at that time, was, while held in high esteem, also financially quite destitute. Those circumstances changed with my . . great-great-grandfather," and for some reason, at that, Hermione looked up with a frown, "who was, from all accounts, quite clever with investments over the course of his lifetime. His daughter, however, married for love—nothing but a common soldier, and Gr—my great-great-grandfather was. . . displeased. Money was hard to come by for the young couple and their son until the old man died. Since then, it's been a steady decline for the family name. Oh, the title's still there, and the estates, but the money and influence have drastically shrunk. These days, mostly glorified merchant class, the lot of us, some farmers here and there, but predominantly barristers, apothecaries, professors, that sort. Nearly all are, as you say, muggles, you understand—myself included."  
  
As heated whispers and not a few dismissive scoffs sounded in the large room, Gris raised his hand and instantly all was silent. Even Hermione's rapidly moving quill was utterly noiseless, though Harry knew that particular scratching as well as the sound of his own voice. In fact, upon seeing that, he made the instant decision to test what he thought might have just happened, and so opened his mouth and called out in a shout for Gris' attention.  
  
Except, he made no sound whatsoever.  
  
Some muggle. Gris had just wordlessly, wandlessly silenced an entire lecture hall full of students.  
  
"Yes, that will be an obstacle," Gris acknowledged, and the man's expression slid back into that familiar pleased smirk of his. "I have been informed that my arrival here is likely to cause no small amount of commotion. You are evidently in the beginning stages of some sort of civil war?" The last part Gris seemed to be asking rhetorically, but that didn't stop Hermione from enthusiastically nodding in the affirmative. "Well, that is appalling. Make no mistake, I am a guest here, both in this school and in the Wizarding World at large, and I shall not speak out of turn on matters I'm neither fully apprised of, nor personally invested in. That is not my place; I'll take no sides. However, that being said, do not cross me." And at that point, it seemed as if nearly everything about Gris stirred and shifted, awakened. His voice deepened, and his posture stiffened as he straightened up to his full height, and even his eyes seemed to change, becoming heavier, more intense—colder.  
  
Harry found himself wondering how the Slytherins were reacting to this sudden display of force because it frankly freaked the hell out of him.  
  
"I give no 'warnings.' None of you are being held inside this room at present, nor will you be in the future. If your desire is to engage in some other activity at this time every week, then far be it from me to stop you. I shall chase no one down and force him or her to attend. You do so at your own discretion. Adults you almost are, and so as such I will treat you."  
  
With that, Gris made another small sweep of his hand, and suddenly the sound came roaring back. For a second or two, Harry could hear everyone's breathing, and the pounding of hundreds of hearts. Then, as quickly as it had flooded in, the overload of sound receded back down to normal levels.  
  
Gris waited a moment, then said in a brisk voice, "This means respect is of the utmost importance—mutual, assured, impartial respect, for you on my part, and from me towards you in kind. There will be no talking out of turn, no cheek, and certainly none of this ridiculous House rivalry I've witnessed. I will speak, and you may ask pertinent questions in a courteous manner—and perhaps there will be some lively discussions over certain topics—but I am here to inform you, enlighten, if you will, not befriend or cater to your whims. I am wiser, a great deal more educated and experienced in certain areas, your better in many respects, and, if nothing else, you will comply with my terms for the very simple reason that I have earned it. I am your elder, and your deference to me in light of my greater number of years is all that I ask in exchange for sharing my knowledge. In short, you will conduct yourselves as intelligent, civilized students, whether you in fact can rightly claim that title or not."  
  
As they all digested that, Gris' voice remaining bitingly cold throughout the little speech, someone in the upper seats must have been spacing off or sleeping or just dumb as a box of rocks because soon a male voice shouted out, "And just how greater a number  _are_ your years than ours?"  
  
Harry would lay odds on the fact that it was a Slytherin who'd asked that, much like the other outburst had assuredly been. This was a different person from the first. Although, again, it certainly wasn't Malfoy—too deep and rough a voice, and too poorly phrased a taunt. Malfoy talked like a ponce, but at least he knew proper grammar. And no one in the other Houses, apart from maybe Zacharias Smith, the irritating prick, would have dared to question someone like that, let alone an adult who was going to be, for all intents and purposes, teaching them for the next eight months. Who knew what sort of responsibilities and duties Gris had been charged with for this year. Was he like another teacher? Could he award and revoke points, give out detentions? Or was he more of a staff member, like Filch was and Hagrid had used to be?  
  
Regardless, the fact remained that at Hogwarts, only morons sniped at the adults. Even Filch, probably the lowest in standing, could make one's life a living hell, and while the majority of the teachers weren't that bad, none of them were exactly pushovers either.  
  
As though in shock, everyone in the hall was quiet after that stupid question was asked. Harry kept a close eye on Gris' face, figuring how the man dealt with this situation would be as good an illustration of his temperament as anything. Best to know now just how much they could get away with.  
  
Gris was looking up towards the higher seats in the room, his expression intent like he knew exactly where the person who'd spoken out was sitting. There was also a strange curl to the corners of his mouth, not like he was pleased or amused or even like his customary smirk. No, this look was, for lack of a better word, dangerous and somewhat. . . pained? Bitter.  
  
It was, he thought, an expression that wouldn't look all that out of place on Snape's face or, and he had no idea where this came from but knew instantly he was right, on Malfoy's either.  
  
"My years. . . " Gris repeated in a low, careful voice, and next to him Harry felt Hermione suddenly shiver. "No, I'll not be speaking on that matter," the man then loudly declared. "Instead, I will conclude tonight's talk with a question for you to ponder over the course of the next week. What do you  _know_? Not believe, not think.  _Know_." Gris looked around the room, and then lifted his hand and made a quick shooing motion. "That is all for tonight."  
  
Several seconds passed before anyone stood up, but soon there was a huge crowd of confused students slowly heading for the doors, while Gris remained on stage, just standing there with his hands now calmly folded in front of him.  
  
"Huh," Harry heard Ron say from the other side of Hermione.  
  
"Yeah," he agreed, eyes still on Gris.  
  
Hermione was still busily scratching away on her parchment, the length of which was already covered in her small, precise writing, and Harry and Ron were content to sit and wait for her to finish rather than wait in line anyway.  
  
Harry saw Ron leaning around from the corner of his eye, and turned to him with his eyebrows raised in question.  
  
"I wonder," Ron said, his voice strangely quiet and. . . thoughtful, "how old Gris actually is. Must not be what we'd assume. I mean, that he wouldn't immediately just  _say_. . . "  
  
"Yeah," Harry agreed, as both he and Ron turned back to look at the man still standing in the center of the stage. "And he sure managed a silencing spell pretty well for a muggle."  
  
Ron nodded. "Pretty weird. So," he said, just as Hermione apparently finished writing her book on tonight's lecture, "who's up for next week?"

 

 


	3. And Now He Knew Beauty's Price.

He had not opened any copy of the book for some time, and yet it continued calling to him, although not nearly in the same manner or to the same degree as the portrait. No,  _this_ beckoning was more akin to a heavy chant, a siren's song, lulling him into false feelings of righteousness and contentment. Sleep was thus understandably elusive, and neither food nor drink in truth tempted him in the slightest. The finest alcohols and opiates only succeeded in dulling his senses, leaving him both restless and stupid, and so he gave them up as hopeless. He would find no peace in drugged oblivion; that much was clear.  
  
Pleasures of the flesh still held some fascination for him, but the more he indulged, the closer he came to desperation. He was running out of time. What waited for him at the end, he did not know but felt deep in his bones he would soon discover.  
  
And it would not be pleasant.  
  
***  
  
The day came when he was the only one who remained, and what once was common knowledge commonly discussed seemed to be no longer of any interest. He attended the funeral and was all but ignored, given not a second glance if even a first. The experience was both liberating and terrifying.  
  
He was at that moment simultaneously free and yet bound more tightly than ever before. There was no escape and no one to notice. He was alone, utterly and irreversibly alone.  
  
And when it rained it did pour.  
  
***  
  
Acts of kindness effected no change. Abstinence from all manner of vices proved much the same. Miserable he was if he did everything and just as miserable if he refrained. His person did not molder in that veritable mausoleum of marble and wood—only his soul, such as it was.  
  
Light could not touch him even as he bathed in it, naked as a babe and infinitely more corrupt. Music was nowhere to be found, his fingers on the keys producing only a tremendous racket time after time. Conversation and companionship were inconceivable for such as he. Life itself was ghastly.  
  
And then it was he appeared.  
  
***  
  
He came on the last day of autumn, when already everything was winter. The wind was high and powerful that morning and the sky grey. No snow hid the dirt and grime of the streets, but the large clouds slowly rolling in promised to change that by sundown. It was bitterly and remorselessly cold, and there came a knocking at the front door.  
  
Had it not been a Sunday, he would not have stopped playing to answer. Had it been any other day of the week, the caller on the wide stone stoop would have been politely but firmly turned away, and all would have been different. But, it was Sunday; the year was 1947.  
  
And naught would ever be the same.  
  
***  
  
"I apologize for bothering you on a– "  
  
"No need," he stated, keeping most of himself hidden behind the closed right door and holding the left open a mere crack. "Whatever your business, it will wait until the morrow. Good day." And with that, he promptly pushed the door shut in the young man's face.  
  
Immediately, the knocking resumed, this time accompanied by a somewhat put-out voice saying, "Please! I only wish to briefly speak with the Lord! I'm more than willing to wait! It will take but a minute! Please, sir!"  
  
Already retreating from the drafty foyer, he was nearly to the right staircase when the caller's voice shouted, "It's about the family painting! I– I am writing a dissertation on the famous lost Hallward canvas, and– and it is essential that I speak with Lord Kelso! Please, sir," the voice called out, and he heard the words even as he struggled to breathe, "please hear me out!"  
  
That damn cursed painting, would he never be rid of it? Now his hands were tied. He couldn't very well let the boy stand out there, shouting to the world about the supposed legacy of the Hallward painting, believed missing these many years.  
  
Trudging back to the doors, he opened the left and once more considered the young man on his doorstep—early twenties, dark hair, decent height and breadth of shoulder, handsome face. The boy actually looked to be older than he himself had been when–  
  
"The portrait, do you mean?" he finally asked after several seconds.  
  
The young man nodded quickly, obviously eager and hopeful now that his pleas had not gone unanswered. "Indeed," the boy said, adding after a moment, "sir," in an obsequious attempt at respect and deference. It must have struck him as funny as well, perhaps given the apparent similarity in their ages, as he briefly grinned and his eyes flashed in a show of good humor.  
  
  
***  
  
His quondam lives, that of poor relation, privileged son, and moneyed recluse, were becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain. As time progressed, government grew more organized and invasive. Numerous documents were required now for nearly every conceivable situation and interaction. Identification meant something different from what it had before. There were cards, squares of paper that were properly stamped with official signatures and all of it done in multiple instances. The act was extremely complicated to keep up, and he found he had a new respect for that type of person—actors, stage people, politicians even, anyone who put on a show and hid oneself away behind a mask.  
  
He found himself remembering all too often poor, dear Sybil, and would oft times pull out Basil's sketches of her—a dead man's drawings of a dead woman for a man who would not die. It seemed fitting.  
  
And now he knew beauty's price.  
  
***  
  
Staff meetings were a new experience, one from which he intended to extract every last drop of pleasure possible. Camaraderie, after a fashion, still held some allure. These professors and custodians and school personnel were even more of a novelty to him, considering their world and all its peculiarity remained a somewhat dangerous yet propitious place for him personally. As an outsider, their various relationships amused and intrigued him no end. There seemed to be layers upon layers of meaning imbued in even the briefest and most reserved of interactions.  
  
He felt it was a case of the more elevated a status in the school hierarchy, the more mysterious and secretive the nature of the individual. Appearances were also most certainly misleading, as he had most fortuitously discovered  _prior_ to committing some terrible gaffe upon his very arrival within the castle walls. Neither incredible shortness of stature nor a decidedly pitiable lack of personal hygiene prevented someone in this world from attaining a position of respect. Even from the relatively limited scope of his dealings here, he found the people's collective ability to look beneath the surface of matters for quality of character both incredibly admirable and utterly terrifying—the latter due primarily to the extraordinary nature of his own condition and nothing more.  
  
The person third most powerful but fourth most deserving of close scrutiny was in fact only part human, standing roughly waist high for most, and perhaps to the knees of another such hybrid, this second who quite literally seemed a giant. Both of these men were polite towards him, though the former did study him quite intensely for a moment, and the latter joked about his apparent age or seeming lack of it. He was not certain if either man knew the truth of his situation, but found to his surprise their company, either together or separate, the most pleasant and calming of anyone's in the castle. Perhaps it was because of his own isolation and uniqueness in this new world, among these strangers all unbelievably younger and yet also wiser than he, that Dorian found himself gravitating towards the most noticeably different people in the castle and its environs.  
  
It certainly wasn't for the quality of the conversation. That was for certain.  
  
If he'd wanted stimulating dialogue, he needed look no further than his self-styled mentor in this place, one Severus Snape. Efficient, experienced, and possessed of a stunningly sharp wit, Snape was in fact too similar to Dorian for comfort. It was a state of affairs not unlike his imagined interactions with a younger sibling. They were of a like mind on most matters, finding even the most trivial of concerns often worthy of scorn and ridicule. Severus Snape was a lonely man consumed with guilt, who derived little pleasure from anything in life apart from his brewing and perhaps the odd mocking of a student here and there.  
  
He reminded Dorian of himself. He reminded him of Henry. Thus, he was to be avoided if at all possible.  
  
Dorian was here for a very specific purpose, and it wouldn't do to fall back into old habits.  
  
In contrast to the rate at which he gained knowledge of the place was the speed at which progress seemed to be made concerning his—condition. He had personally spoken with the head wizard of the castle on only two occasions. Otherwise, all developments or requests for information were relayed to him through other members of the faculty, usually either Snape or Minerva McGonagall, the latter whom apparently considered him and his situation both burdensome and deplorable. The woman always conducted herself with the strictest of decorum around him but also made it quite clear that were it up to her, he would not be permitted anywhere near the castle or its grounds. Even the caretaker, a nasty man who from all appearances hated everyone and everything in existence save his unsightly feline companion, would likely prove more hospitable than Minerva McGonagall. Dorian found himself hoping she was not a key part in undoing his curse, for he could not fathom her motivations or loyalties. Was she in line with the old wizard, or an independent force? Who in the castle followed her or shared her opinion that Dorian Gray, Damian Gris, was a man to be shunned and avoided at all costs?  
  
He did not know, and uncovering the truths of this castle and its inhabitants was a pursuit that, while he deemed it interesting in theory, would likely remain unsolvable for an outsider. And Dorian was most assuredly an outsider.  
  
He had been allotted several rooms for his own use, including a lavish bedroom with en suite bath, a sitting room tastefully appointed and stocked with fine spirits and wines, and a study complete with a sizeable desk and sundry writing implements. In every room, there was a hearth with a neat pile of kindling, and yet in none were any of the modern conveniences he'd been training himself to use and keep abreast of throughout the years. In a drawer of the desk, he found several impressive hawk feathers, pots of ink, along with a blotter and parchment, and no sign at all of fountain or ball-point pens, and no non-traditional paper. Books upon books lined the study walls as well, all neatly arranged and alphabetized according to author, but there was no television—only a gramophone with a selection of records nearby and a strange contraption reminiscent of a radio's design but with different knobs.  
  
Indeed, intrigued by the lack of technology and curious as to whether or not that was a stylistic choice or a necessary one, he had unpacked his camera and, upon attempting to fire it up, found to his dismay that it was for all intents and purposes dead. After worrying for a brief moment, he had repacked the camera and resolved himself to questioning someone on the matter soon. He needn't have fretted though. Soon after his discovery, a knock sounded on the door to the rooms, and when he answered he found himself, for the first time to his knowledge, face-to-face with nothing other than a magical creature.  
  
"Headmaster Dumbledore is requesting Master Gris in his office. Warbly be showing Master Gris the way now." Then the short, wrinkly creature turned and set off down the corridor, presumably towards said office, and Dorian again did something then he hadn't done in nearly a century.  
  
At that moment, he resolved to follow the directions of another and prayed this time he would not be led once more down the path of damnation.  
  
***  
  
Whilst he found both the world in general and the faculty in particular fascinating, the students themselves left something to be desired. His second lecture of the term ended much like the first, with his steadfast refusal to discuss personal matters. The difference was, instead of respecting him and dropping the subject, a few presumptuous students had begun mouthing off and demanding answers. There were also several words let loose that he was positively certain were insults of one form or another and without question inappropriate. At one point, Dorian had to struggle to even be heard over the din of shouts and name-calling, and his hasty solution had been to send out his silencing trick again and order the students to immediately exit the lecture hall.  
  
He'd been so flustered he hadn't even lifted the silence as they all stomped out, just remained standing stock-still on the stage and gripping his hands tightly behind his back so as not to show any sign of panic.     
  
The topic that night was meant to tie-in with the question posed to the students the previous lecture—that of knowledge, both physical and existential, in addition to belief and class systems, indoctrination, and all of it as defined and influenced by the broad concept of cultural hegemony. His goal was to have the students in a questioning and logic-driven state of mind from the start of the lecture series, as he expected such an attitude would only help facilitate discussion further down the line when he would open the floor in the hopes of creating a dialogue between him and the students, and perhaps later the faculty as well.  
  
It was a good plan, a good idea, and it would have been something to behold if he'd managed to pull it off—a way to teach without telling, encourage without impeding. Sadly, the students had been of another mind on the matter. Or, rather, their minds themselves had been focused on another matter, primarily getting him off-topic seemingly in an effort at tearing down his credibility.  
  
He hoped it hadn't worked, but he truly could not definitively say one way or the other. Some of the students seemed to rally to his defense, but they were few and largely ignored or talked over. Dorian had half a mind to try and track down his defenders out of some disgustingly misplaced sense of gratitude. It would no doubt be impossible, however, for even for as long a time as it had been, he still remembered well the law of the schoolyard. No, it was best to just push it to the back of his mind and keep a look out in the future for do-gooder types who viewed coming to another's defense as a basic part of existence.  
  
What took up most of his thoughts was figuring out the best course of action from here on out. Should he ignore the last session, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred? Or would it be more advisable for him to immediately address the issue—admit the lecture had not gone as planned, and then perhaps open the floor to comments ahead of schedule? No, upon second thought that last did not seem a viable option. The likelihood was too great for a repeat performance from last night's troublemakers. What then should he do? He was at a loss, even idly entertaining the notion of simply begging off the commitment entirely.  
  
Finally, but as he would have been better off doing from the first, Dorian took it upon himself to ask for advice.  
  
He attended the staff meeting the morning following his disastrous lecture with his head held defiantly high, and though everyone was kind enough not to say anything, he detected quite a bit of amusement in the faces around him, particularly McGonagall's.  
  
But, Dorian held both his pride and temper in check, and did his best not to appear unduly flummoxed by the whole ordeal. Nothing but a polite mention was made of his lecture series, and as the staff meetings were conducted by the Headmaster of the school himself, Dorian took that as a sign of understanding or at least awareness of the situation. He wasn't called to the carpet, anyway.  
  
Afterward, however, as the majority of the staff withdrew, Dorian rose from his chair and made his way over to the corner of the room where the Headmaster and Heads of House stood in conversation. He waited back a polite distance, not wishing to interrupt, but it seemed the nature of the topic being discussed was such that eavesdroppers were to be avoided, as no sooner did Dorian come near than Snape whirled around and fixed him with an impressive glower.  
  
Suddenly, the other four broke off their talk in favor of studying him as well, and he was on the receiving end of at least another two suspicious stares.  
  
"Yes, Mister Gris?" the Headmaster then asked quietly. "Was there a matter you wished to discuss?"  
  
Dorian resisted the urge to either swallow or breathe deep as he promptly answered, "Yes, indeed there is, Headmaster. It pertains to my lecture last night." He glanced quickly around the small circle, and hurriedly added, "I wished only to perhaps ask some advice of you, any or all of you, as I admit I'm rather at a loss as to how to continue." As he finished, he noticed the expressions of Professors Flitwick and Sprout smooth into something more sympathetic, while McGonagall's remained impassive. Snape, to his knowledge, was always either scowling or smirking, and in this instance it was the latter expression affixed to the man's sharp edged mouth, which Dorian decided to consider better than the former for the sake of his nerve.  
  
It was the Headmaster who spoke next though, and if he weren't mistaken, Dorian thought that was relief on the man's lined face. "We did indeed hear of your misfortune last night, Damian," he said, which answered at least in part Dorian's long held questions as to whether or not his real identity was known amongst all the staff and if it were "safe" to speak of such matters within the castle. Evidently, the answer to at least one was decidedly "No."  
  
"The students were all abuzz with it last night when they returned," Professor Sprout offered up in agreement, "and it seems likely they'll be gossiping about it this morning too."  
  
Flitwick nodded his head at that, and Snape, the smug bastard, actually snorted, oddly causing McGonagall to smile.  
  
"Well," the Headmaster said, "I see no reason why we can't all lend Damian a metaphorical hand. I'm rather attached to my physical ones," he said jokingly, but which curiously resulted in all the good humor vanishing from Snape's face, "but my teaching hands are open and extended to you. To be sure, you need only ask as you have done here now, and I shall happily prattle on until we are all ghosts and you are covered in dust and cobwebs." He finished by smiling cheerfully, but Dorian was finding it hard to breathe for all the tension just that one casual remark had stirred up in him.  
  
What was the wizard playing at? Had he truly meant that as a barb, or was he trying to tease him?  
  
"Yes, well," Dorian composed himself enough to say, "I certainly appreciate the offer. My lack of experience in this area is definitely showing now. I completely lost control of the situation last night, and it escalated quite alarmingly. One moment I'm attempting to briefly outline existential thought, and the next I'm all but being interrogated on my– my own beliefs." He met Flitwick's eyes for a moment then, and detected what he thought was sympathy as well as something else—something friendlier than suspicion but more insistent than mere curiosity.  
  
From that, he came to the logical conclusion that odds were Flitwick knew, and once he acknowledged that, he began making a quick, rough guess as to the others. The Headmaster of course knew all that Dorian had told him and surely more besides. Snape wasn't clear either way, but for some reason Dorian felt sure Severus had been briefed on at least some of the details. Sprout, on the other hand, Dorian was almost certain remained unaware. She was much too nice and politely distant in her manner for the case to be otherwise. That of course brought him to McGonagall, who treated him the exact opposite as Professor Sprout. If that woman didn't know, then Dorian was a parrot. There seemed no other explanation for her cold yet knowing behavior towards him.  
  
"Classroom management," Flitwick said then, and Dorian respectfully met the man's eyes in response, "is always a gamble. No one method works consistently, and each group of students reacts differently, let alone the student body as a whole."  
  
"Oh, I don't know," came what Dorian recognized as Snape's droll tone of voice, "I find they all respond uniformly to certain—stimuli."  
  
This time it was McGonagall who snorted, her rejoinder a snappy, "Yes, but I doubt Mr. Gris plans on descending from the podium and scowling fiercely down his nose at the troublemakers, Severus."  
  
"Of course not," Snape replied easily, "that would be too simple and direct an approach." This caused everyone but Dorian to smile, and elicited a chuckle and roll of the eyes from McGonagall, which led Dorian to the conclusion that, against all logic, Snape and McGonagall were actually on quite friendly terms, at least insofar as teasing, bantering, and mock-bickering with each other was concerned. It was strange, but it added more evidence to his theory that they both knew of his situation, as well engendering in him some scant amount of hope that eventually McGonagall might come around. She and Snape were opposites in many things, and the two of them still acted cordially.  
  
There was a chance.  
  
There was a  _chance_.  
  
Dorian then looked up as the Headmaster said, "A matter of consid– " only to twitch in surprise when the wizard was interrupted.  
  
"Pardon me, Albus," McGonagall said, which the Headmaster waved dismissively away and gestured for her to continue, "but personally—and while I am sure there is a reason behind this I'm not seeing, it escapes me at the moment—I believe a great deal of the problem lies in the fact that rarely, if ever, are all of the students taught together. Seems to me, there's a reason why we separate them according to Year and then additionally into two groups within that Year, and that is exactly to avoid incidents such as the one last night." She was quite clearly criticizing what Dorian expected had been the Headmaster's decision, and yet nothing in the tone of the room indicated that this was anything too terribly out of the ordinary.  
  
It was fascinating and enlightening. Even better was the fact that while she spoke, McGonagall met Dorian's eyes several times, even seemed to be speaking  _to him_  as she continued, and not once did she scowl or narrow her eyes in contempt.  
  
"This year, there are two students in particular capable of starting riots whenever they open their mouths," McGonagall stated, glancing at the other professors' faces before turning her eyes on the Headmaster, "but particularly when they're put together, and you place them not only in the same room, but also with the rest of the student body, and you think nothing will go amiss?"  
  
In response, the Headmaster breathed out deeply, pursed his lips, and then grudgingly nodded that McGonagall had a point.  
  
"I confess," Dumbledore said tiredly, "I had a most optimistic outlook when I arranged these lectures. I have hoped to bridge that particular chasm of ill-will many a time over the years, but often my actions have the reverse effect. I fear I have pushed them further away from each other, to the point where—any reconciliation now is preposterous."  
  
Dorian had no clue who the students in question were, but everyone else in the room seemed to. McGonagall winced in sympathy, and Dorian caught it as she quickly shot a look across to Snape—Snape, who stared blankly at the floor.  
  
"Well," the Headmaster suddenly said into the silence that had followed his admission, "I think, Damian," and Dorian quickly met the wizard's eyes in response, "that in light of Minerva's scolding I shall take another look at the organization of these lectures of yours and see if we can't arrive at a better format, one fostering learning and discussion rather than misunderstanding and quarreling. Why don't you come to my office tomorrow around 4:30 and we'll talk about it." He then nodded at Dorian and raised his hand to gesture at the door behind him. "If that is all then, I'm afraid the Heads of House and I must return to such scintillating matters as assigned corridor supervision and meal schedules."  
  
Dorian politely smiled and then exited the staff room, finding out too late that his timing was particularly awful that morning. As he walked towards his rooms, he encountered several groups of students no doubt wending their way down to the Great Hall for a spot of breakfast with a side of gossip. He received those specific knowing looks from nearly all of them, ranging from mild amusement all the way to sneers of ridicule. One group in particular, though, stood out. A handful of them, they actually smiled at him, and it was kind and sympathetic, much like Flitwick's smile to him earlier, or McGonagall's commiserating grimace to the Headmaster.  
  
So Dorian briefly smiled back, and wondered if perhaps he hadn't just stumbled upon his do-gooder types.

 

 


End file.
